Give Me the Child

by Mel McGrath

  I returned to my office. There was a knock on the door and Claire appeared with some coffee. MacIntyre wanted to see me at four. He’d read the piece in the Herald and wasn’t happy.

  I checked the clock on the screen. I had two hours to prepare myself for the meeting. I’d signed a contract giving over the copyright on my research to the institute which meant I could be legitimately locked out of my own work. I didn’t think it would come to that but it paid to be safe. I told Claire to take messages if anyone called, swiped myself in through the authorised personnel door in the research department and moved down the silent corridor towards the administrative suite, then got to work making sure all my files and their supporting images were fully encrypted and backed up on a memory stick. Just in case. When my phone bleeped a reminder, I downloaded the last of the files onto the final stick, logged off and headed to MacIntyre’s office, rehearsing my lines. The director’s PA, Anita, flashed me a sympathetic smile, before showing me straight through.

  MacIntyre, who was on the phone, nodded a greeting and gestured to the chair on the side of the desk nearest the door. I sat with my hands in my lap trying to steady my nerves. For what seemed like a long while MacIntyre carried on his conversation but the moment the phone went down, his face darkened. As he took a breath, and leaned forward on his elbows, steepling his hands, I thought I may as well get in first. The blood was singing in my temples.

  ‘I’m assuming this is about the piece in the Herald?’ I explained that White had somehow found out we were treating Joshua Barrons at the clinic. I had suspected Barrons’ mother, Emma, of being the leak but I had no proof and now I wasn’t so sure. I told MacIntyre that White had used the information to effectively blackmail me into giving him some general background on youth violence and that he’d promised to keep my name and the Barrons family out of the paper. He had only kept half his promise but it was at least preferable that he’d named me rather than giving away the identity of Joshua Barrons. There were too many outlets who’d jump at the chance of a story about a ‘devil child’.

  MacIntyre leaned back in his chair and interlaced his immaculately manicured fingers.

  ‘What I’m still at a loss to explain is why you felt it necessary to verbally abuse Christopher Barrons on the telephone? You know, I presume, that he serves on the committee of the Halperin Trust?’

  Shit.

  ‘I didn’t know that,’ I said.

  I knew Halperin all right. The fund was a major grant giver, funding some of the cutting-edge research into Parkinson’s and Alzheimer’s. My heart felt as if it had been unzipped and opened out. The only way to have screwed up more than I already had would have been to have punched Barrons in the balls then robbed him of all his money.

  ‘Barrons is a wife beater,’ I said lamely.

  McIntyre looked at me unblinkingly. ‘Even if that were true, why would it be the business of the institute?’

  ‘Because we’re trying to treat his son and Barrons is making it impossible. He refuses to accept there’s anything wrong with the kid. How are we supposed to try to steer Joshua away from violence when he’s witnessing his father beating his mother?’

  I saw MacIntyre’s complexion redden.

  ‘I wonder if you are listening? Your actions have put the institute’s work at risk.’

  I readjusted my position. I had rehearsed for a wrist slapping over the Herald but I hadn’t prepared for this. ‘You must know that wasn’t my intention,’ I said. ‘But Joshua Barrons is the institute’s work. Part of it, anyway.’

  MacIntyre flipped idly through some papers; his eyes had shrunk to two tiny unfathomable holes. ‘That won’t do, I’m afraid.’ He looked up. ‘There seems to be something of a question mark over your mental health.’

  ‘There’s no question mark,’ I said, a little desperately. ‘Just a bit of stress at home.’ Who had MacIntyre been talking to? Not Tom surely. Anja then? ‘My research—’

  MacIntyre lifted a hand to cut me off, a matador readying himself to deliver the coup de grâce.

  ‘I’ve taken your tremendous research record into account, Caitlin, as well as what have come to my attention as some personal issues. But you will appreciate the situation you’ve put me in. You can’t simply call up our major funders with completely unsubstantiated accusations. I feel I have no choice but to suspend you pending further inquiries.’

  ‘Inquiries?’

  MacIntyre held up a staying finger. His eyebrows rose a little and he glanced at his watch as if to emphasise the point. ‘I suggest you go home and take some rest and, in due course, perhaps you can sort out the distractions in your personal life. We’ll be in touch. Now, if you’ll excuse me…’ He made a vague gesture towards the door.

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  Outside, the streets were almost empty of people and traffic and the shopkeepers were closing early and pulling down their grilles.

  Not far from the Wise Owl Cafe I came across a pile of free sheets dumped on the street, the front page dominated by a picture of the body of fifteen-year-old LeShaun Toley lying sprawled on the pavement, his blood bright in the morning sunshine. The police were in lockdown, their spokesperson saying they were continuing with their investigations into the shooting and insinuating without actually coming out with it that LeShaun had been a gang member and had threatened several police officers. LeShaun’s mother was denying her son had any involvement in gangs and demanding more clarity from the Metropolitan Police. An earlier demonstration had been broken up and the mayor and community leaders were appealing for calm.

  The stabbings had been almost daily front-page news in the Herald but this development felt different. It was the first time police had been involved in the killing and they were doing their best to minimise the kid’s death and blame it on gangs. By talking to White I’d got myself mixed up in what was fast becoming a major political scandal. I’d allowed my heart to rule my head. Maybe MacIntyre was right. Once again I’d stepped over a line and just kept going. How could I have been so stupid?

  Hurrying up Holland Hill, I noticed that Grissold Park had been shut and the gate locked. I texted Simeon and cancelled our meeting to review Ruby Winter’s scans, and he texted back that he wouldn’t have been able to get to me anyway: some of the roads were closing and the Tube lines were disrupted. The young crowd who had taken to hanging out at the bus shelter outside Jamal’s shop had vanished, but the candles around the nearby ‘shrine’ had been relit, and someone had graffitied the words Feds = murderers onto the yellow board. Jamal himself was standing beside his shopfront nailing planks across the window.

  I gave him a limp wave, which he returned with a grimace. He stopped what he was doing, stood up, his face sombre, and greeted me with a solemn, ‘As-Salaam-Alaikum.’

  ‘Looks like you’re preparing for a hurricane,’ I said.

  ‘Maybe,’ Jamal replied. ‘But this shop is all I have.’ He flicked his head towards Brixton. ‘This time people very angry.’ Jamal turned his attentions back to me. ‘You too. Your face. Very angry.’

  In the years we’d known one another Jamal had never said anything so personal. Was it really that obvious?

  As I turned into Dunster Road I made myself slow down and take some belly breaths. By the time I reached home I was a lot calmer, at least on the outside. The girls were in the garden, Ruby playing on the trampoline while Freya sat under the ideas tree, absorbed in a book. I’d been uneasy leaving them with Tom this time, after the conversation about the lido. Something had happened in the water. Neither of the girls was about to reveal what but my instincts told me that Freya and Ruby’s relationship had shifted as a result of that event. Ruby’s interest in Freya, which had initially been a mildly envious curiosity, had in recent days grown darker and I felt sure that whatever small harm had so far come to Freya since Ruby’s arrival was likely to increase as the newcomer grew in confidence. I’d seen the momentary look of fear on Freya’s face when I’d caught her practising her breathing, a
s if she were too afraid either to stop or to tell. I knew from the experience of the last few days that giving voice to my fears to Tom or Sal would only arouse their suspicions about my mental state still further, but something concrete had to be done to protect my daughter.

  In a way, I saw now, MacIntyre had done me a favour. It would have been impossible to carry on working while I felt Freya wasn’t safe. This way I’d be at home for a while and able to keep an eye on the girls. I’d be able to get a second opinion on Ruby’s scans from Simeon and find a family solicitor to talk through my options. It might be that Simeon’s report would force Tom’s hand and persuade him to enrol his daughter in some kind of therapeutic programme. I had enough savings to survive for a few months. For now I could focus on protecting Freya and buy enough time to come up with some plans to secure our future together. Whether that future would include Tom and Ruby I didn’t yet know.

  Freya spotted me at the French windows and came running. ‘You’re early! Guess what? We went to the park but they closed it, so our friend came to play here for a bit.’ She flung her bendy arms around my waist.

  ‘Oh,’ I said. ‘Which friend?’

  ‘The one we met in the park.’

  Ruby had stopped trampolining now and was standing on the grass, watching us.

  ‘Hello, Ruby,’ I said. ‘Did you have a good day?’

  When she didn’t answer I turned to Freya. ‘What did you play?’ I asked, but my daughter just shrugged and looked away.

  Tom appeared at the French windows. ‘You’re back. Did the institute close early?’ He sounded frosty, but I’d come to expect that.

  ‘I called you.’

  He grunted to indicate he hadn’t got the message.

  I lowered my voice so the girls couldn’t hear. ‘How’s your father?’

  Michael Walsh was the last person on my mind but I didn’t want to antagonise Tom by sounding unconcerned. Tom told me that the old man had sprained an ankle and bruised his arm badly. He had arranged for a carer to go in until Michael was more mobile.

  ‘A word in my study?’ Tom said, turning. I followed him. He so rarely initiated the kind of conversation I sensed was about to come that I felt winded and apprehensive.

  ‘Who was that kid the girls were playing with today?’ I asked.

  Tom had sat on the love seat we’d inherited from his mother while I remained hovering by the door. Tom lifted a palm to stop me. ‘Hang on, it’s my turn to ask the questions. You took my daughter into work?’

  ‘Yes.’ I’d already rehearsed an answer for this. ‘I was thinking about what you said and decided I should spend a bit more time with her. I thought it would be good for her to see what I do all day.’

  But Tom wasn’t about to let me off that easily. ‘You put her in a scanner.’

  I had a ready-prepared answer for this too. ‘Well, no, I mean, not really. I let her lie on the scanner bed so she could see how it felt. Then Lucas came in and asked me to check something, so I let Ruby watch a movie with the goggles we’ve got in there.’

  My gaze fell to the photo on Tom’s wall of the three of us on Freya’s third birthday in front of the butterfly house in the park. Three grinning faces and one double cone Mr Whippy with three flakes. I wanted to cry out, What happened to us? But it was already too late.

  ‘You should have called and asked me.’

  ‘You’re right, I’m sorry. It’s just with Michael being ill I thought you’d be rather preoccupied.’

  Tom’s eyes narrowed and I sensed he was trying to catch me out. ‘And that message you left, about Freya not being well. She’s feeling absolutely fine. So what was all that about the pool?’

  ‘It was something Sal said…’

  I hadn’t practised this part and he knew I was lying. ‘Cat, really, are you listening to yourself?’ He leaned in, a faintly menacing expression on his face. ‘Because you’re beginning to sound a bit mad, and I know you’re drinking too much. Didn’t the psych say that was the one thing you absolutely mustn’t do?’

  Suddenly, I heard myself say, ‘Why did you hide Charlie’s iPad? Was it because of what Ruby scratched on the screen?’ I’d kept my discovery to myself until now, knowing that the worst thing I could do would be to bring it up mid-row, when Tom could throw it back at me and the whole thing would become about my invading his privacy. And now I was doing the exact thing I’d promised myself I wouldn’t. I’d been manoeuvred into showing my hand too early. Damn Tom. Damn me. What was I thinking?

  Tom looked up. His nostrils flared and there was something in his eyes that frightened me. He stood up from the love seat, went over to his desk, picked up the tin retro-robot sitting beside his laptop, wound it and set it back down. The robot made its faltering way across the desk. The movement seemed to calm him, because when he spoke again he was like a different person, cool and reasonable.

  ‘First, you had absolutely no right to go snooping in my drawers. Since I evidently can’t trust you, I’ll be keeping the study locked from now on. If you must know, I hid the iPad because I knew you’d make up some ridiculous theory about it. So what if Ruby did take it? Kids pinch stuff all the time. Particularly when they’ve just gone through the kind of thing Ruby’s gone through. I’ve dealt with it. She knows not to do that again.’

  I opened my mouth to say something but Tom held up a silencing hand.

  ‘Hear me out, Cat. Honestly, I think your work is getting too much for you. You seem to think that every kid except your own is some kind of psycho. Ruby is an ordinary kid who’s had a tough time and deserves a stable, loving home which, as I’m sure even you can see, she’s never going to get while you’re living in this house.’

  I looked at him and felt curiously detached. ‘What exactly are you saying?’

  ‘Isn’t it obvious? You need to move out for a bit while you get some help. Then we’ll see.’ And with that Tom swept up the robot and dropped it into the desk drawer as if to say, That’s the end of the matter.

  The girls had gone to their rooms, sensing a row brewing. I went out to the ideas tree to calm down and think through my options. Tom had skilfully turned my own arguments against me and I hadn’t even seen it coming. I was now the person deemed unfit to remain in the house. How could I have allowed that to happen? Everything seemed so tangled and confusing it was hard to think straight. Was it conceivable that Tom was right? What if my instincts about Ruby really were as hopelessly off as Tom seemed to think? It wouldn’t be the first time. Kylie Drinkwater was dead because I had fatally misjudged Rees Spelling. Had my terror of making the same mistake driven me to view everyone who came close to my child as a potential threat? Was Ruby Winter merely a victim of my overprotectiveness and anxiety? People who knew me seemed to think I was losing it. I didn’t feel crazy but wasn’t that the first sign of madness? Who should I believe? Myself or everyone around me?

  I took a few deep breaths. In the distance came the whump of helicopters. My head continued to spin. I thought of leaving. Just picking Freya up and going. The sounds grew louder. Whump, whump, whump. My pulse quickened. A wave of panic rose in me. I looked up through the branches of the tree and saw the spinning blades, felt something lurch and had a desperate need suddenly to be inside in the safety of the house. Rising, I ducked under the umbrella of branches and emerged in the open air of the garden. Directly above, the helicopter stirred the soupy summer air. My throat thickened. Was that the smell of burning? An inner voice told me to get closer to the house. I began to hurry down the garden, my pace accelerating until I reached the French windows. There I stood for a moment, leaning on the bricks, catching my breath, my hands trembling too much to pull open the door, until finally the helicopter moved away and the roar of the blades dimmed to a distant hum.

  Back inside the house I poured myself a glass of wine. I wanted to go upstairs and see my daughter but I didn’t trust myself not to alarm her. Instead, I went into the living room and switched on the BBC News Channel for the top-of-the-hour bu
lletin. It seemed the local news had gone national. While I’d been sitting in MacIntyre’s office, a crowd had gathered in front of Brixton police station wanting answers about LeShaun Toley’s death and demanding to speak to a senior officer. An officer had eventually appeared but radically misjudged the mood, claiming Toley’s death had been referred to the Independent Police Complaints Commission and he had nothing more to say about it. Toley’s family, who were outside the station, were unimpressed. Two days ago, they’d had to learn of their family member’s death from bystanders and reports on Twitter. Since then no one from the police had spoken to them directly. The voiceover reported that the crowd had been particularly incensed by the police officer’s suggestion that they go home. The police had responded by sending out officers in riot gear to move people away from the station. Jamal must have caught wind of this when I passed. Since then all hell had broken loose. The crowd had started pushing the phalanx of police back. The police had responded with a baton charge. People were setting fire to bins.

  This wasn’t going away any time soon. Already the buses had stopped running, the trains weren’t stopping at Brixton and most of the local through roads had closed. South London was in lockdown. Terrified of losing control, the Met had drafted in officers from other forces to help police the situation. If ever there was a moment not to walk out on your husband and take your child from the only home she’d ever known, this was it. For the time being, at least, I was trapped.

  My phone began trilling the ‘Hallelujah Chorus’. I took the call.

  ‘Cat! Are you rioting down there?’ It was, of course, Sal.

  ‘Not personally, no.’

  ‘Everything’s fine then?’

  ‘Depends what you mean by fine.’ I told my sister about White and Barrons and being put on indefinite leave by MacIntyre. I told her that Tom had brought up the possibility of my leaving. As I spoke, I was looking out of the window onto the street. The sound of sirens and helicopters was pretty constant now and the smell of burning had grown stronger.